Sitting on the Edge of Oblivion
by googleit6
Summary: The Piece of Eden isn't as subjective as it seems. Al Mualim's intentions for The Holy Land were only the beginning. Now that it's really showing what's it made of, it's up to Altair and Malik to get rid of this abonination once and for all. AU
1. Breaking the Ice

**A/N: **This started out as a oneshot, but Altair and Malik just wouldn't shut up. This is definitely the longest thing I've ever written. People interested in action/adventure, beware! This is 5k of _one _conversation. No setting change, no movement. (Except plot, of course.) The conversation is also _very _convoluted. It gave me a headache many times while I was writing it, as I was trying to stay true to the type of dialogue from the game, and trying to get a point across at the same time. I don't know how _well _it's actually written, so it will be up to you to tell me if you want the story to continue. Dare I say there is no point in writing it if no one will read it?

Anyways, Altair sounds a little bit preachy. If I was Malik, I would have punched him in the face already, whether he is Master of the Assassins or not. But that's just me, and Altair is just being, well, Altair. Always a thinker, that one. If you're going to read this whole thing, get ready for a headache! And, enjoy!

* * *

A lone figure perched on the highest rooftop in Masyaf. His legs dangled into the space below him, at a dizzying height. A soft wind was blowing, making the tassels of his robe sway. He appeared to be lost in his own mind, a slight grimace at the corners of his mouth. His dark and troubled eyes were unfocused as they tried to solidify the images his mind provided him with. Had someone from the ground looked up, he would have been seen as a large eagle, perhaps. Especially with the sun behind him now, throwing his profile into shadow. He was so far gone from the world around him, that he at first didn't hear the figure behind speak his name. His name had to have been called twice before he even registered the presence of someone else.

"Master,"

Startled, the figure looked up.

"Malik," He greeted in his usual, solemn way, hiding the twinge of annoyance that he felt as he realised he was being interrupted. "Please use my name, not my title."

"My apologies, Altaïr. You know we use that title only to show respect for you, not to show the inferiority of ourselves."

"Yes, I know, but being called 'Master' has left a bad taste in my mouth, and it will always be that way, I am sure." Altaïr said neutrally, referring to the one who was last called "Master" and what his intentions for the Brotherhood –The Holy Land- were.

"Once again, I extend my apologies."

"It is of no consequence. What have you sought me out for?"

Malik cleared his throat awkwardly. Although Altaïr had asked everyone to use his name, not his title, he was still referred to as "Master" when Altaïr himself was not around. "Ah… Altaïr, myself and the other assassins were just searching for you. You have seemed troubled lately, and while it_ is_ a time to mourn, it is also a time to celebrate. You have purged The Holy Land of one who had nothing but malevolent intentions, and in the process, have become Master of the Assassins yourself. And, if I may say, I have heard many people speak of you and refer to you as 'The Great One'.

Altaïr's face was hidden by his hood as he stood up and half-turned around to face Malik, so Malik could not see the small, self indulgent smile that Altaïr allowed on his face for a fraction of a second, if that.

"I am by no means, 'The Great One', Malik. There were many before me, and I am sure there will be many after, who are far more deserving of the title than I. As for yours and the other assassin's concerns, I thank you for the sentiments. There _is _something troubling me, and I apologize for not being very attentive to you and the others. But this matter is pressing, and I feel that I must understand it and gain knowledge from the situation as soon as possible."

Malik was quiet for a minute, digesting what he had heard. Although Altaïr had always been a thoughtful individual, even more so since he had been stripped of his ranks by their former traitorous leader, Al Mualim, Malik had sensed that Altaïr had been even more secretive than usual, which made him nervous. Although he would never admit it to anybody, he questioned Altaïr's ability to lead the assassins, not because of lack of skill, but because of lack of communication. As Malik contemplated this, another thought occurred to him at that moment, and it made him even more uneasy. Al Mualim had been just as secretive as Altaïr was being at the moment, and though Malik knew Altaïr well, everyone had been living with a sense of paranoia since Al Mualim's true intentions had been revealed. Altaïr had only been Master of the Assassins for a week, and he had been even quieter than usual.

Malik chewed on this new thought, and as he did, Altaïr turned away from him and sat down again, his conscious presence being swept away into his own mind again. Malik panicked, knowing that Altaïr would not appreciate being interrupted again. But, as Altaïr seemed so intent on keeping his rank as merely a formality, Malik decided he could venture a possible taboo question. He had heard from witnesses, that when Altaïr had questioned Al Mualim as he was assassinating all of Al Mualim's partners, his master had mislead him and reprimanded him for asking anything that seemed to give Altaïr too much knowledge in the situation.

Malik knew that Altaïr was different, knew that he truly had the Creed's best interests at heart, but he felt that he needed to hear Altaïr's verbal verification that Malik's fears were preposterous.

Nervously, Malik cleared his throat, trying to attract Altaïr's attention. As per usual, Altaïr didn't answer, as he was too far gone into his own head.

"Altaïr." He said it clearly this time, intending to break the wall that Altaïr had built around his thoughts, to protect them from the outside world.

"Yes, Malik?" Malik heard the sigh in Altaïr's voice, and ignored it.

"Altaïr, forgive my boldness, but as atrocious as this sounds, my concerns must be put to rest."

"What are your concerns, Malik? Please, do not hold back." Altaïr replied, his voice as even as ever.

"I… am worried. I will sound insane, as I am sure these thoughts are, but I must say…" Malik took a deep breath, "At this time, you reflect Al Mualim in your secrecy. You will not say what is bothering you, and I know you would never act as selfishly or as deviously as Al Mualim, but, I am loathe to say, this secrecy could hurt your good intentions as a leader."

Malik braced himself, shocked at his own daring.

Altaïr still did not face him, so Malik had no idea what his reaction was to his small speech. Tension hung in the air, and Malik feared that, not only would Altaïr berate him, but he would build the wall again, and this time, it would be permanent and infallible.

To Malik's intense surprise, when Altaïr spoke, he did not sound angry, or even offended. In fact, he sounded… grateful?

"Join me, Malik," Altaïr invited, still without looking at him.

With a quiet shuffling of robes, Malik was sitting beside Altaïr, their twin boots dangling the same height from the ground below.

They sat in silence for a minute, each assassin gathering his own thoughts.

"I agree with everything you said, Malik," Altaïr said quietly, feeling Malik's incredulous eyes on him."

Malik remained silent, waiting for Altaïr to continue.

"Malik, this past week has been tumultuous, whether any of the other assassin's noticed or not. Taking Al Mualim's position has been difficult, and I can sense the fear and confusion in the air. After being betrayed by one leader, how can you trust another so soon? Yes, I have heard the rumours about myself, being referred to as 'The Great One' you spoke of moments ago. Yet, the people who spread them seem to be awed and fearful at the same time. After being used like playthings, I completely understand their unease. However, that is not the main reason for my silence.

After I defeated Al Mualim, the Apple of Eden was to be mine to destroy. With no other thought in my mind, I sought to demolish it. My intentions were so clearly portrayed across my face as I made my way towards the Apple. When I was close enough to deliver the first blow, however, I was held back by something I have no words to describe. I heard Al Mualim's voice in my head, still so attached to this world, taunting me, asking me why I did not have the will to forever remove its presence from the earth. Hearing his jeers merely strengthened my resolve to be done with this piece of evil once and for all. Truly, I tried. I felt myself walking nearer to it, saw in my head the picture of myself raising my blade and slicing it in two.

But I could not. Every resolve of strength I had fled from me, into the Apple, it seemed. All of my will gone in a moment, all of the resolve I had to destroy it. It was as if nothing was wrong with the world. Golden voices were murmuring, urging me forward. They promised so much, and they sounded so genuine. It was a physical pull as I was bathed in the otherworldly substance the Apple produced. Everything was right, and everything was beautiful. Why would I stay in a place as desolate as our world, when I could make my own world with the Apple? The sweet, chiming voices told me that my every wish would be granted, my every desire fulfilled. And I saw- I saw…"

Altaïr broke off at that moment. To Malik's immense surprise, he seemed to be composing himself. Altaïr looked away, coughing awkwardly. Malik glanced in the other direction, out of respect. What could Altaïr have seen that would generate such a strong response?

After a few moments, Altaïr had calmed down enough to continue.

"I saw Adha in the Apple. She beckoned me, called to me. In that moment, it felt like nothing else the Apple had shown me could match the sight of Adha inviting me into her arms again, forgiving me for not… for not saving her on time. Eventually, she disappeared, as it appeared that the Apple had other plans.

"As I looked into the picture it projected, I found myself entranced. Everything around me disappeared, save the Apple. The map seemed to go on forever, revealing locations of what I can only guess to be other Pieces of Eden. I don't remember when I came to my senses, I do not remember why or how I came to my senses, either. All I knew was that _I could not _destroy that Piece of Eden. At the time, I told myself that it would be a waste to get rid of it, that I would be losing an opportunity to study something so extremely rare. I knew then, and I know now, how absurd those assertions were. The only reason I kept it, was because I had no other options. I could not bring myself to harm it. It was like an ethereal gift, constantly whispering to me, sweetly asking me to use it to finish Al Mualim's work. I was so tempted. I almost gave in to its soft caresses of persuasion.

Somehow though, I managed to regain my sense of self again, though it was no small feat. As I turned my back on that wretched, evil object, I saw… _things_."

Altaïr abruptly broke off again, and Malik immediately got the impression that, this time, he had no plans to continue.

"Altaïr," Malik said quietly, nervously. "You say that when you looked into the Apple, you were alone?"

At Altaïr's slight nod, Malik felt his already uneasy stomach drop.

"You hadn't noticed me and my men then?"

"What?" Altaïr rounded on Malik, his expression bewildered. With half of his face in shadow, Altaïr looked almost like a statue. One half of his face was strong willed and curious, and the other was something the devil himself had conjured up, all hard lines and flashing eyes. Good versus evil. As Malik studied Altaïr's face, he realized he couldn't tell which one was which. Altaïr had always been one to blur lines.

"You never acknowledged us, but we were there. What you just described, I saw as well. A map containing fictitious land masses- or maybe not? I am not sure as to why the Apple affected you this way. Yes, I was compelled to be near it, to own it, to use it against fellow man. But I feel that you had a much more personal connection, on a deeper level, perhaps?"

"That is strange," Altaïr murmured, gazing towards the glowing horizon, having regained control of himself. "Al Mualim specifically said that I could not be influenced so easily, that who I am and what I do was so intimately intertwined that he could not rob me of my mind as he had done to other men. He even told me that he tried to gain control over me once, but that his attempt failed."

"I apologize, Altaïr. It seems that I have given you more questions than answers." Malik said, his voice carrying on the breeze.

"No, Malik. I am not Al Mualim. You are allowed to freely question. To truly be an assassin, you must have knowledge about the ever growing world around you. To have knowledge, you must ask questions. You must trade ideas with those around you. Learn of other's perspectives and let others learn of yours."

"Thank you, Altaïr." Altaïr's slight reprimand had made Malik wonder. As Altaïr himself was asking more questions of Al Mualim, and having none answered truly in the process, his confidence in honesty must have been severely shaken. Was that why he suddenly put such emphasis on open truth telling?

The sun was going down now. Its last feeble rays mixed in with the indigo black of the night, creating a strange, otherworldly contrast.

"The world is so different than we once knew, Malik," Altaïr said with traces of longing in his voice. "Things have changed so much already, and I feel it is only the beginning."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each man thinking.

"Altaïr, what did you see when you turned from the Apple?" Malik asked, hoping Altaïr would be ready to continue.

Altaïr grimaced, but he began to explain.

"When I turned away from the Apple… when I ignored its wishes and turned away from everything it was offering me, the world beyond the golden light of the Piece of Eden turned ugly. In that instant, I truly thought I had seen the world for what it really was. Al Mualim told me I had seen through the illusion. When I saw what was outside the reach of the Piece of Eden, I thought him a liar. What I thought I was seeing now was the world with nothing to cloud my judgement. Anger and greed fought for dominance, men looked at women who weren't their wives with lust, men who were perceived as good were hidden away in a cellar, trying to find a way to use their benevolent façade to their own advantage.

To this day, Malik, I do not know if what the Apple showed me was true. I do not want to believe Al Mualim, or his beloved Piece of Eden. Did I truly see through the illusion when Al Mualim tried to control me as his own? Did the Piece of Eden show me the world for what it really is? Why did I have such a strong reaction to the Apple, compared to you and your men?

These questions, and more, have been pursuing me all week. I do not know how to understand this Apple. It is so unique, yet there might be more scattered throughout The Holy Land and beyond. What if someone were to stumble on an Apple through no fault of their own? What monstrosities would be released then?"

Malik felt his shoulders sag as Altaïr's burden was now shared with him. So much information for one person. For one _Creed _even.

"We have so many questions and no answers," Altaïr said, a quiet frustration underlining his words. Malik made no reply, as much at a loss as Altaïr.

The two stared at nothing, and thought. Altaïr, about the Apple. Malik, about Altaïr. He was feeling ashamed of his prejudiced assumptions of Altaïr's intentions. No wonder the Master had been quiet about his musings. To admit to such a strange weakness took courage, although if there was one thing Malik had never doubted about Altaïr, it was his courage.

But _such _a strange weakness it was. To be affected by the Apple so strongly, so persistently. Suddenly, proclamations of Altaïr being "The Great One" didn't seem so preposterous. What "The Great One" was destined for, Malik had no idea, but to resist such a temptation and continue to resist it as Altaïr had described, must be some sort of divine test- and Altaïr had passed. A divine gift, it was now.

Although Malik had always been quiet about it, as his beliefs would surely make him be ridiculed by the other assassins for it, he had always felt that there was something more out there, some knowledge that was unknown to the mortal beings confined to Earth. Whether it be a God and Satan, or a heaven and hell, or even just a higher plane of being, Malik was unwilling to admit that it was all for nothing. He knew Altaïr did not share his beliefs, which would probably be why he would end up torturing himself, trying to figure out why _he _was so different, when Malik knew that he could account all of Altaïr's strange experiences to divine intervention.

"Have you come upon any conclusions?" Malik asked.

"Each is more absurd than the last." Altaïr responded, frustration coloring his voice. He turned away from Malik, looking towards the horizon again. Ever since that Piece of Eden had played a part in his life, things kept getting more complicated.

However much Altaïr preached to Malik about knowledge, ignorance was what he had learned. Years of following Al Mualim had proven that. In the eyes of many, assassins could be considered the most ignorant of classes. Following a leader solely because you were told to, putting all of your faith into one person, was exactly what led to the cataclysmic events of a week ago. Blind faith.

Was this how people felt about Altaïr now? Was he just another face to fill the void of a leader? Altaïr knew that someone had to lead, and he also knew that he was an obvious choice, considering the events of last week. As Al Mualim had stated, peace was what the Templars sought, albeit not at the consent of the people of the Holy Land. Altaïr wanted peace, but with the tensions between the Assassins and the Templars, true tranquility could never be achieved- not even to mention the other battles going on at the present time.

Nobody would- or could- ever truly achieve peace.

It was a hard thing to swallow, but the conviction that the thought brought with it told Altaïr all that he needed to know.

"Malik, do you think the Holy Land will ever be able to live as one?"

Altaïr watched Malik as he contemplated this.

"I think," Malik stated softly, "that whatever the answer to that question is-and I cannot give you an answer-we have to try to achieve it. That is what our Creed exists for- to promote peace. Our means by which we attempt to achieve it may be contradictory, but our goals are noble and just."

"We share the same goals with the Templars, and the ways they attempt to achieve it are contradictory as well. Who are we to say that their methods are so much more blasphemous than ours?"

"Listen to yourself, Altaïr!" Malik exclaimed, "You know as well as I, that the Templars are after power. _We-_" as he said it, he gestured between himself and Altaïr, "are after free will. We fight for others who cannot fight for themselves. We fight for the ability to think what we please!"

"Malik," Altaïr said wearily, "The world is full of contradictions. What you have just said is full of contradictions." At Malik's protests, Altaïr merely held up his hand to silence the man. "We fight for free will. Is that, in itself, not a contradiction? If everyone else may have free will, does that not include the Templars?"

"Of course it does not include the Templars! Free will is _taken _from those who plan to covet other's free will for themselves."

"So we will take free will from the Templars as a punishment for their planning to take free will from others?" As Altaïr asked Malik this question, his eyes were so _hopeless. _It struck a chord with Malik, who remembered feeling like that as he learned to deal with having a single arm. Absently, he tried to move his left arm, and was rewarded with only a twitch from what was left of his shoulder. Malik looked up, only to find that Altaïr was staring at his attempts to move a non-existent arm. Embarrassed, Malik looked away from Altaïr, into the dark night.

Altaïr continued to stare where Malik's left arm used to be. Although he and Malik had made amends, Altaïr was still tormented by Kadar's death, and the loss he had forced upon Malik. As a good assassin, Altaïr was supposed to make peace with his mistakes, but when lives of those Altaïr cared about were at stake; the guilt lingered with him much longer than it had with the deaths of unknown, innocent people. Much of the time, Altaïr wondered if he would ever forgive himself. He even wondered if Malik would ever truly forgive him, although he had, many times, assured Altaïr of his forgiveness. Somewhere far below the surface, however, Altaïr knew that Malik was still mourning the loss of his brother, and his arm. He would never mention it again, especially with Altaïr as Master of the Assassins, but Altaïr still sometimes felt subconscious animosity emitting from Malik.

"We have to do what we feel is right," Malik told Altaïr. "We are fighting for what we believe. We band together as brothers and sisters to face a great enemy, and we work to rid the world of them, for the betterment of mankind. We work not for ourselves, but for the people," A slight, sad smirk tugged at the corners of Malik's mouth as he added, "Because the people can't fight for themselves."

Altaïr had a sudden vision of himself walking around a walled city, only to find that he would have circled all the way around, having learned nothing of a possible entryway. Somewhere in that city, the answers which Altaïr sought were present, waiting for someone to find a way over its seemingly infallible barricade. The city was unwilling to give up its secrets, even to the Master of the Assassins. If only they could find a way to get someone on the inside, like they had done so many times before. If someone could give them insight, even to point them in a general direction. But this city was highly unpopulated, as only the greatest minds had ever found a way to climb the foolproof walls. Once you were in, Altaïr had the feeling that you wouldn't want to leave, or you _couldn't_. True enlightenment was not sought after by the weak of heart and mind.

Altaïr brooded silently, while Malik focused on the height he was sitting at, on the wind on his face, and the sight of the white, full moon. Anything but what Altaïr was contemplating.

Unfortunately, Altaïr was merely staring in consternation at the city's walls in front of him. His thoughts were churning sluggishly, mixing together and settling another mist of utter hopelessness upon him. There was so much to change, and yet so little seemed to be able to be done about it. Were things even ready for these changes? How long would it take for them to happen? Ten years? One hundred? One thousand? What could Altaïr personally do? It was all so impossible, so out of reach.

"What are your thoughts, Malik?" Altaïr spoke into the stillness of the night, startling Malik. Truth be told, Altaïr was tired of having to sleep each night when he was making no progress with his persistent thoughts and worries. Sharing his ideas, if it would change anything, would at least open up the possibility that there was a solution out there, and Altaïr just hadn't figured it out.

"Regarding what, Altaïr?"

"Everything our conversation has touched upon tonight."

Malik didn't know if his master could sense it, but on the surface of things-as he had been unwilling to look any deeper- he was at just as much of a loss as Altaïr.

"I am regretful to say that I have no additional insights to offer you, Altaïr."

Malik watched as a flash of disappointment flashed across his master's face. He covered it up quickly, though, and spoke.

"I have a strange feeling tonight, Malik. With everything that has happened in the last year, I would have thought that defeating Al Mualim would mark the ending of my journey. In that moment, after the death of Al Mualim and before my supposed destroying of the Apple, before doubt was instilled upon my mind, I felt as though I was truly enlightened. I was wrong, which makes me ask yet another question I feel will not be answered for a long while. Does true enlightenment even exist? Or are the planes of knowledge infinite? As we arm ourselves with intelligence, and deem each other superior or inferior to ourselves, is there any one man or woman who is truly enlightened? And what would that entail, exactly? As our world is such a subjective place, is enlightenment achieved only when you have become fully objective? Is enlightenment different for each person?"

Altaïr paused to take a breath, and Malik felt himself rather dizzy. He found himself wondering if Altaïr ever just wanted to detach himself from his thoughts, and just _be _for a while.

"I apologize," Altaïr continued, "What I meant to say, regarding the strange atmosphere surrounding us tonight, was that _tonight _feels like a beginning. However desolate and hopeless I have seemed, I believe something good is starting here. The strangest thing about it though, was that the premonition itself was extremely sudden and clear. Maybe all is not lost, Malik. This strange feeling still lingers inside me, and every time I start to feel like all is lost, a pulse of hope is dispersed throughout my being."

Malik's head was swimming. He felt that Altaïr himself was the strange atmosphere he kept talking about. The master's complete one hundred eighty degree shift in thinking was unbelievably odd. It had happened in a matter of seconds.

Although he had not given it permission, a thought popped into Malik's head at that moment, causing him to cast Altaïr a swift, sideways glance. It made him uncomfortable, although the notion itself wasn't entirely painful. Malik knew to keep this thought to himself, however, as Altaïr would deem it completely unfathomable.

Had some outside force taken pity on Altaïr, giving him a sense of hope? Was the God that Malik treaded ever so carefully around offering to help Altaïr? Was that the palpable shift in the atmosphere? _Divine intervention_?

If Altaïr had, indeed been chosen as "The Great One", would whoever bestowed this upon him want to give him incentive to continue with his questioning? With the almost inevitable journey that would be the end result of this conversation?

Automatically, Malik looked towards the sky when he thought of any higher power. Were the stars a little bit brighter? Did the clouds form any specific shape, offering a sign? Would the wind blow in a different direction?

Malik waited for a few moments, and nothing out of the ordinary happened. Put out, but not surprised, Malik cast a glance Altaïr's way.

"How do you propose we proceed, then?" Malik asked. Altaïr met his eyes an answered.

"I said that tonight feels like a beginning, Malik. We must put our thoughts into action, incomplete as they are. I have been isolating myself for too long, and I believe that no further thought will help me understand the great mystery that this world is. I have experiences to be gained, lessons to be learned, and knowledge to be taught. However, you must understand that the path we are beginning our trek upon is going to be a treacherous and unpredictable one. There are many questions to be answered, and many lands to travel." Altaïr stopped suddenly, coming to a surprising but inevitable realization. As Malik looked on, he saw something akin to muted excitement wash over Altaïr's usually emotionless expression.

"What is it, Altaïr?" Malik asked, getting gladly caught up in the much less depressing and extraordinary overtones that had been hovering over their earlier conversation.

"My journey will start soon, and I must select an assassin to take my place as Master of the Assassins."

Malik was stunned.

"Are you… sure, Altaïr? You are going to take on this extraordinary journey on your own?"

Altaïr paused a moment in his very toned down excitement, and was silent for a moment.

"I just spoke of not isolating myself anymore…" He began in a much more serious tone. "And yet here I sit, mere seconds later, telling of how I will set off on an extended journey alone. That seems rather controversial, does it not?"

Malik didn't respond, but just listened, knowing that this was leading somewhere.

"Would you like to accompany me on these travels?" Altaïr asked bluntly.

Malik was too stunned to really think about what Altaïr was asking, and replied with the first thing that came to mind.

"What about the other assassins? You are our leader. What would become of them?"

"Do not worry over such things, Malik. I have hardly had the chance to grow accustomed to the life of leadership, and I know of many suitable candidates to permanently take my place as Master of the Assassins." Altaïr had not meant to sound so severe, but it came across that way, as he was internally stressing over Malik's answer to his first question.

"Why have you asked this of me?" Malik questioned, truly curious. He wondered if the choice was actually his to make, or if Altaïr was merely framing it as a question because it would persuade him more easily.

"For many reasons, Malik, and one of them is of my utter faith in you. I trust you implicitly. I have also shared this information tonight with no one but yourself, and I appreciate your concern for me. My most significant reason, though, is that I would enjoy your company, and I consider you a good friend, Malik."

Whatever Malik had been expecting, it was not that. He was warmed by the thought, though, of having an ally- not in the sense of the Brotherhood itself, but of having a true companion to confide in, and let the bonds of the Creed slacken just a little bit when they were in each other's company, as they did not have to worry about offending each other so much as the Brothers speaking among themselves would.

"So this decision is truly mine to make?" Malik asked hesitantly, not wanting to offend his… friend.

"Of course," Altaïr answered simply, the corners of his mouth turning upwards the slightest bit.

"I would be honoured." Malik answered. Altaïr's hidden smile became a full one, and Malik's mirrored that as the primal instinct of men-against-the-world kicked in.

The two friends sat side by side on the rooftop, in the dark night of Masyaf. They did not speak, but were connected. The concept of friendship in the Creed was not a new one, although it was a rare one. Assassins had always been taught to keep unnecessary emotions beneath the surface, to remain as indifferent as possible. When friendships spawned, it often created tensions among the Brotherhood, as some were scornful, and others were envious, but silent about it.

Malik and Altaïr sat in silence for much longer. They didn't so much think about the reason they would be leaving Masyaf, but the fact that they would be leaving together, in a true sign of comradeship. Worries about the Apple and the Templars were still present, but more of mosquito bites than that of a horse fly.

And for the rest of the night, thoughts of a warm and inviting nature were played in both assassins' heads, ignoring the storm that was inevitably gathering around them.

**A/N: **That was crazy, wasn't it? When I intended this to be a oneshot, I pictured it as full-on angst. Strangly enough, though, Altair pulled a personality 180 on me, and got all hopeful. It was weird, but I rolled with it.

Oh! Something extremly important to note. In fact, it is so important, I will put it in **bold **letters. **This story will not involve slash! **Okay. While I was writing the ending part, all I could think of was how it would seem as if there was going to be a romantic plotline between Altair and Malik. Well, no. There won't be. I was assured by an outside sourse that it didn't seem slashy, but I still worry. (Not that I have anything against slash. But I don't want people getting the wrong impression about this story.)

So, if you liked it, please let me know! If I continue this, I will be travelling into unknown territory. Specifically, 12th century customs around the Middle East. The only experiance I ever got of that was AC1. And, while i'm rambling, I would like to mention that I have _no _plot outline _whatsoever_. Merely vague outlines in my head, that probably look and sound much better _in _my head.

Finally, the end! Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


	2. Power Has a Serrated Edge

**A/N: Well. It would appear that this has taken FREAKIN' FOREVER to update. What can I say, except that Malik is a little bitch? Last chapter, I said Altair was being difficult. Malik has taken that frustration to a whole new level. I don't want to spoil anything, so I'll leave you with a warning.**

**WARNING: This chapter has a "WTF did I just read?" factor of a bajillion. **

**Enjoy! :)**

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The Brothers were exceptionally curious, although not entirely surprised. It had been just about a week since Altaïr had unofficially officially taken over Al Mualim's spot as Master of the Assassins, and today was the first day he would be addressing them as one body, one functioning unit.

A few of the younger Assassins had been curious, and some had even been slightly indignant -they had been reprimanded for that later- as to why their new Master had not addressed his pupils in some sort of initiation or even a _word_, the day after Al Mualim's demise, when Altaïr had been informed of his newfound position among the Creed.

After Altaïr had defeated Al Mualim, and the old Master lay dead and exposed, chaos ensued. As Altaïr was otherwise engaged with a much more personal battle, warring internally with himself and the Apple, he could not attend to the anarchy that was erupting in the village.

Merely seconds after Altaïr had lost himself in the Apple's golden aura, Malik and his men arrived to an extremely strange sight- although by that time, between having a trusted Master betray you and him succinctly enslaving the entire population of your village, Malik and his men had seen enough strange things to use the word sparingly- and this was _strange_.

Altaïr was staring at a projection of some sort that was emitted from the Apple that Al Mualim had so closely guarded. It was a large, spherical map. Yet how that could be possible, Malik had no idea, as it was not made of any solid material. It was translucent, and light golden mist seemed to settle around it as if it was sitting in the middle of a fog. The map _seemed _to be one of the world- but what of the masses to the west? Comparatively, the Holy Land was an ant under the sandal of a reckless, unthinking human. Could this be true? If it was, who resided there?

Brilliant gold lines shot through the illusion -if that's what it was- and continued through the sky, resting upon random surfaces. Marks dotted the map, showing the residence of unknown items. (As Malik later learned, the unknown items were other Pieces of Eden.)

As Malik watched Altaïr watch the Apple, a sense of unease overcame him. It was like a sense of _want _and _need _had fallen over him like a blanket made of the finest silk- light to the touch.

But what was this? Malik had no idea where these feelings was emitting from, or entering his awareness. Was it of touch, of sight, of smell, of sound? Could he taste it on his tongue? Was it in the air?

Why was he hearing hushed voices, cajoling him, caressing him with their saccharine pleas? They asked him to steal the Apple, hide it away from everyone, and only unleash it upon the world as a means to control, to be king.

"You will be everything you ever dreamed… Complete control…" They promised, drawing him in the way Medusa drew men in with her unearthly beauty, only to be turned to stone as they gazed upon what they thought they desired.

Malik forced himself to look away from the map, from the beauty and mystery it presented. He would _not _be turned to stone. He would _not _succumb to the honey-sweet persuasions this _thing _offered before him.

The whispered phrases were broken now, only coming in short bursts. Slowly, they died away. Malik sighed in relief, only to regain the breath he had just expended, as the voices started speaking again, and he gasped.

With horror, Malik registered the change in the voices. As he pulled farther away from the Apple, the voices became louder, screeching, shrieking at octaves high enough to make Malik stumble backwards. And it was only getting worse. They were all around him, cutting him, clawing at him. They were _inside _him now, tearing at his insides, his vital organs, his memories and dreams. Their screams were almost visible to the eye, a wall of sound, rushing at him as an unstoppable force, breaking upon impact, washing him in a fresh batch of cries. It was anger, at its purest, most uninhibited form. It was following no social boundaries, no tameness, no breeding. Only primal fury, unbridled and unrestrained. As the volume of the voices rose, Malik felt himself drop to his knees, tearing at his hair with his right hand. He was yelling at the voices, now. Screaming curses and banishing them from his sight. He couldn't hear himself shout, let alone think about what he was spewing to these vile creatures from the darkest depths of hell.

As the cacophony reached the widest point of the crescendo, the ultimate climax, and Malik was about at his breaking point, everything stopped. The silence was so sudden that the furious pounding of the pulsing of blood in his head was actually throbbing.

Malik sat in a dumbfounded stupor, breathing as if he had just run ceaselessly for hours on end. Ever so slowly, colour melted back into his wavering vision, and sounds -normal ones- invaded his silence. However, not-so-normal ones were making themselves known to him as well.

Screams reminiscent of those he had just experienced were floating up from the city. People were sobbing, shrieking, shouting, and making sounds Malik knew only to be indicative of one thing- death.

Immediately, Malik was on his feet, investigating his surroundings. Although he had been a _dai_ for months, his finely tuned senses had not left him.

"What has happened?" Malik barked at his men, who were watching him with wide eyes.

"Malik… are you feeling feverish? Do you know where you are?"

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Malik realized that his men had seen his exchange with the Apple. They had heard him screaming, trying to rid his soul of invisible demons.

With shame, Malik saw in his mind what he looked like. A broken, insane individual. One who had seen too many dying, seen too many slaughtered and destroyed. His mind had merely snapped. No one could blame him, right? His brother was dead, his arm was gone, and his leader and idol had betrayed _everyone_. A lesser man than Malik would have succumbed to a similar fate much sooner. He was lucky to have lasted as long as he did. Breaking down at the sight of his dead master's body was merely the last he could tolerate.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

He was _not _insane. He was _not _delusional.

He had to convince his men of his sanity. The damage in Masyaf needed to be assessed, and Malik had no idea where the rest of the Assassins were. For all he knew, they were part of the screaming, tragedy-stricken mob below.

What if Al Mualim, while in control of almost the whole population of Masyaf's assassins, had forced them away from the city? Or, even worse, compelled them to die- by their own hand or another's.

Malik took a deep breath- and then asked the worst possible question he could have asked in his situation.

"Did not any of you feel it?"

Now, Malik's men were nervously sneaking glances at each other.

"…Feel what, Malik?" One asked hesitantly, with pity in his eyes.

Internally, Malik cursed himself for such an unthinking blunder. Of _course _they hadn't felt it. _They _weren't the ones rolling on the ground as if their insides were boiling.

Malik wiped sweat off his brow, and readied himself to stand up.

"Maybe you should rest, Malik."

"And maybe _you _should not speak unless spoken to," Malik snapped brusquely as he stood up shakily. He steadied himself quickly, the wide eyes of his soldiers not escaping his notice.

"We must help the people of Masyaf." Malik ordered. "We have a duty to protect this city, even after the threat has gone."

"Maybe we should seek help for you, Mali-"

"GO!" Malik interrupted the man who tried to speak. "Leave this place, now!"

And with Malik's fervid shout, the men took off with no further questions. Malik watched them go, and when the last tassel whipped around the corner, he immediately went to the body of Al Mualim.

Malik stared down at his previous Master, and felt a plethora of emotions fighting for dominance.

This was the man who had been like a father to him. This was the man who had taught him to wield a sword, to strike at an enemy with deadly precision. This was the man who was great and intelligent, and who all the assassins looked up to. He had gained the knowledge of the ages, had passed it on to a new generation. This was the man who had taught Malik that missing an arm was a mere technicality.

"The passing of information and enforcement of our laws are, and always will be, as important as the deed of killing itself. Never look down upon yourself, Malik. Handling your injury with pride and poise is what you have done, and I commend you for it."

This was the man who attempted to take over The Holy Land.

Al Mualim's words -comforting at the time- were now fading rapidly, becoming as inconsequential as a raindrop on the forehead, a caress of wind to ruffle the tassels of his robe, rendering Malik emotionless. After all, what was rain to a mighty assassin? A _mere technicality_.

As these thoughts ran through Malik's head involuntarily, another struck him. However, this one was jagged and sharp, not vague and detached. It tore his mind as it blazed through, looking for a safe place to remain. It made despair leak out of his eyes in torrents, dropping onto his Master's robe, staining them, staining _him_, staining the memories.

For, if what Al Mualim stood for was false, then what he said was rendered untrue, was it not? Malik was _not _like the others. He was a burden, a lowly _dai _with one arm. He was an abomination to the Brotherhood.

For so long, Malik had deluded himself into thinking that he _was _worth it. He had argued with himself for hours, as the darkness swallowed up the sky and the stars peeked meekly out of their hiding places among the cosmos. All the sunrise ever brought him was empty assurances and dark circles under his tired eyes.

With Al Mualim's seemingly biased preference and blessing, Malik was barely functioning. Without it, Malik's fragile façade was crumbling fast. He was standing in the middle of an earthquake, and his feet were cemented to the ground. Buildings that were laid in concrete and promises and assurances were tumbling to the earth, shattering on impact. Cracks were opening up in the ground, swallowing anything in their path. Malik could only stand and watch in horror as civilian after civilian, and building after building were brought to their demise. Suddenly, the sky plummeted to the earth, taking the sun, earth, moon, and stars with it. The hole was pulling everything in, a gravitational force that was unheard of.

At Malik's feet, a hurricane of bloody sunsets and pelting rain was melding into a vivid green field under a pounding gray sky full of thunder and lightning. Electricity was crackling in the air, jumping from cloud to cloud, person to person. Malik could see the life leave their bodies. The fear in their eyes, their souls, was quieted. Their heads lolled like that of a young girl's rag doll, their heart now just as lifeless.

As the rain pelted the field, a familiar figure appeared on the grass. The figure stared up at the angry, threatening clouds with trepidation. Wind whipped at his hood, until it finally blew off, leaving his face with no obstructions and no shadows.

Malik felt his eyes widen.

It was Kadar.

"Kadar!" Malik screamed into the deep pit, watching his brother frantically search for a way out of the storm.

When Malik screamed, however, no voice rang out. Malik had felt his voice strain, had felt the volume at which he had yelled. Yet, no voice escaped his throat.

"Kadar!" He mouthed again, trying to move, to run, to do _something_. His feet were like lead. He _could not _move.

"Kadar!" Malik mouthed yet again. A vein pulsed in his neck. Wind was playfully kissing his cheeks and making his robes sway. Kadar's wind was different. It howled now, making it hard for the assassin in the storm to walk. It screeched past him, making his robes billow like that sails on a sailboat. Malik could see tears running down his younger brother's face. Whether they be from the wind or fear, he would never know.

The bloody sunset was back. Against a backdrop of the enraged thunder clouds, the sun sent crimson rays onto the field, causing the rain to appear dark red. As the dark rain drops settled on Kadar's robe, Malik saw with horror that the rain _was _red. It stained his brother's robes, making him look like he had suffered a tremendously painful and treacherous injury.

The wind was screeching now, driving the rain like pellets at Kadar's unprotected head. He tried shielding his face, but Malik could see the rain fly into Kadar's open mouth. He watched his younger brother choke on the water, and struggle to catch his breath.

Malik was struggling against the invisible reins that held him to one spot. Sweat beads were glistening all over his face, and his teeth were gritted.

"Kadar!" He attempted to yell, to no avail. "Kadar!"

The wind was still playfully nibbling at his fingertips.

Meanwhile, the wind had changed direction in the storm over the field. Somehow, it was blowing _upwards_. With horror, Malik watched as Kadar struggled against the massively strong winds. He watched Kadar be slowly, slowly, picked up by the wind. He rose above the field, towards the clouds.

Malik knew what was coming. He could feel it to his very core. It taunted him, laughed in his face. He could do nothing about it. He tried screaming his brother's name, only to be met by silence.

Kadar was rising towards a space in between two clouds. He looked like he could keep going, keep ascending into a broken and askew sky. But Malik knew that was not the case. He watched as red tears leaked out of his brother's eyes. His robes were a deep red, as well, the rain having done its job perfectly.

As soon as Kadar was situated in between the two clouds, in the only quasi blue spot left, Malik felt the fight drain out of him. He stopped struggling, and watched as Kadar laid spread eagle in the air. He saw his brother's shocked face when the wind stopped carrying him, and then saw the anxiety replace the shock.

With an earth shattering crack, thunder leapt in between clouds. Kadar was in the way.

In the split second before the lightning struck him, Kadar's fearful eyes found Malik's tired ones.

With the red sunset behind him, Kadar cast a long shadow on the grass below him. He was illuminated for a brief moment, as electricity coursed through his veins, a bright white light against the gray and red of the cruel sunset. Rain continued to pour, and the wind continued to blow. As Kadar writhed in mid air, Malik felt his own tears leak out of his eyes, and didn't notice the red streaks they left on his face as he swept them away.

With a sick sizzling, the wind and rain stopped. For one second only, Kadar was suspended in mid-air, now just as lifeless as the citizens who were pulled into this pit.

He plummeted to the ground. With no noise that Malik could detect, he saw as red slowly took over the green of the grass around his brother's body.

The storm clouds dissipated and the thunder stopped. Not a sound was to be heard. The sunset remained, though. It cast Kadar in an eerie light, making him blurred around the edges. The now-crimson sky was all encompassing, with stars dotted just above the swollen red sun, ready to descend and cover everything in the blanket of night, hiding the monstrosities that lay just beneath it.

Malik could not hold it in any longer. Taking a great breath, Malik screamed his brother's name at the top of his lungs.

To his complete surprise, Malik's voice broke the smothering silence.

His voice could only be heard when no one was alive to listen.

Coming back to the real world, Malik found himself on the ground again. Moaning loudly into the dirt packed beneath his cheek, he was breathing heavily. Small, claw-like scratches were scattered across his skin from where rocks had scraped along the sides of his face. The dirt was now situated quite gratingly into his cuts, and where there wasn't blood, there were brown smudges from his close relationship with the ground in the past few minutes- except for the tear tracts. The salty water had cleared the mud away, and left the scratches stinging.

Shakily, Malik pushed himself into a sitting position. He wearily raised his head up; his natural instincts were taking over- making sure that there were no more "real" dangers lurking. With a gasp, he realized that he was right beside Al Mualim's body. He scampered back, his mind reiterating one command only. _Get away from that body._

Gulping breaths of fresh air, Malik stared at his Master's body from a good distance away. Al Mualim's hand was still outstretched, as if he was still clutching the Apple and not at an empty space.

Malik felt his chest heaving, still affected by the strange vision of Kadar. Could that be Al Mualim's doing? Was it the Apple, still playing with his mind? Anxiously, Malik looked toward Altaïr, who was still standing exactly as he had been when Malik and his men first entered the courtyard. Nothing seemed to be wrong with him, except for the fact that he was as unresponsive as any inanimate object one could lay eyes on.

So why was Malik so susceptible to this infernal Apple? He eyed the golden orb, puzzled and afraid.

He was not strong like Altaïr. He was not as skilled, not as smart, not as _good_. He was _weak_. He was nothing but a fallen angel of death. His black wings had burned up, leaving him bruised and broken and stuck on this planet. No chance of ascension remained. Forced to live as a shadow of his previous self, skulking in the alleyways at night like some damned rat.

He was stuck in some sort of purgatory. Not allowed to be seen by day -after all, what one-armed assassin could fight off swarms of guards, or even keep his balance while leaping from rooftop to rooftop?- he had to live by the darkness. Yet what he had been striving for his whole life -the rank of Master Assassin- was lost somewhere in the recesses of Solomon's Temple, shrivelling up with every passing day that its potential was not put to use. Restricted to the darkness, yet bound by the rules of the light. It was a tough line to walk, and Malik was already unbalanced enough these days without having to look down every few seconds to make sure he wasn't a step away from plunging to a premature death.

Altaïr remained a statue as Malik considered his options. Altaïr didn't _seem _to be in any immediate danger, and Malik was not intending to go near the Apple or Al Mualim again. What was going on with Altaïr, Malik did not know. What he _did _know was that he needed to get down to Masyaf quickly and help out the other assassins with crowd control.

Hesitant to fall under the same, mysterious spell that Altaïr seemed to have fallen under, Malik decided it was in his best interests to leave Altaïr to himself. He had a duty to the citizens of Masyaf, and besides, Altaïr was a fighter. He would not need or want Malik's help with this- He was Altaïr, the Master Assassin who saved the Holy Land from the rule of Templars. Malik was probably more of a hindrance being here, anyways.

With his plan to leave thought out, -to leave the courtyard, anyways- Malik found himself hesitating. He urged his legs forward, trying to ignore the tentativeness of his steps. So swiftly that he hadn't even noticed, exhaustion had settled over him in a fine mist, coating the backs of his eyelids, tempting him to sleep at every blink of the eye. Gritting his teeth, Malik fought through the haze as best he could, feeling like he was submerged under water instead of atop easily accessible terrain.

With slow, shuffling steps, Malik eventually was at the opening to the courtyard. He shook out his legs, attempting to overcome the sudden lethargy that gripped him.

He stuck his arm out to brace himself against the stone wall, almost falling against it in his weariness. A weight was behind his eyes, getting heavier with each step he took. It overcame his limbs, knocking his feet out from under him. He slid to the floor where the stone met the earth, exhausted.

With a frustrated groan, Malik laid his head back against the wall, trying to gather his wits about him. He was panting heavily, and he hadn't even attempted to get up yet.

Just as Malik was going to attempt to stand up again, he felt a slight breeze against his cheek. But it wasn't just a summer wind's caress. This breeze carried something significant with it, something that weighed it down.

It carried his name.

"Malik," The element whispered to him, stroking his cheek. "Join me. Join us…" The voice was neither male nor female, high nor low. It was merely a means of communication- a way for Malik to understand.

The sudden onset of lethargy made sense now. Quickly, Malik realized that it wasn't just physical and emotional exhaustion that plagued him, but that God forsaken Apple. It didn't want him to leave. It was trying, in one last ditch attempt, to seduce him. To bring him to the golden isles of bliss, where, just under those pure waters were the souls of the damned, and just on the other side of the bluff were the fiery bowels of hell itself, waiting with sharpened teeth and claws. The flames licked at the sky greedily, turning it red, yellow and orange. It was always sunset, just past those bluffs. Hell's fire would never be extinguished, would never be sated. It would always be looking for more slaves, more ignorant fools who wandered in, looking for power and heaven. How ingenious it was, to disguise Hell as Heaven. To wear a façade of benevolence, when just under the surface, scratching and tearing and begging to come out, was malevolence itself.

No, Malik wasn't going to be taken in again. He wouldn't go back to the place where bloody sunsets and screaming tornadoes blended seamlessly. He wasn't going back to the place where the skies rained blood and the living had no voice.

If he had to _crawl_, he would make it out of here. If he had to drag himself with his one arm, he would.

That Apple would _not_ take him. He was stronger than that. He had fought through losing his brother, losing his arm, losing his reason for living. He had lost the ability to be all he knew- an assassin. But that wasn't going to be the end of him. He was damned if it wasn't going to make him fight that much more, tooth and nail, to leave this place.

With a surge of adrenaline, Malik rolled into a crouching position, ready to stand.

Matching his mood, the wind blew again, but more violent- enough to blow his hood around his face, shielding his eyes.

"Do you feel that?" It whispered sweetly, breath hot in his ear. "Do you feel that _power _surging through your veins? The world could be yours. They will bow to you, to their master!"

Malik shut his eyes, trying to tune out the faceless voice, even as it grew in volume, passion marking its excited, deluded ramblings.

"Power is _everything_. A man with no gold can be the richest man in the world, if he has power. The man with the most gold can be nothing, if all he holds in his hands are coins. Coins are meaningless, until those who matter tell its worth, with their cunning smiles and dishonest eyes. The world is _theirs_ to mould, _theirs _to control.

"It could all be _your _power."

Malik held his head in his hand as the wind continued to blow.

"Lies!" He screamed to the air. "All you tell is lies!"

"Never lies." The voice promised, the wind settling a bit. "'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.' He who transcends this simplistic, mortal barrier is the one who holds true power. _He _is the one who permits. _Your _word, your _world _will be truth."

"I will be operating as a deity?" The words spilled out of Malik's mouth before he could stop them. He heard the awe in his own voice.

The voice took on an almost smug tone, as if it knew it had won. "You will be everything to everyone. They will do your bidding, obey your every wish. It will al be yours." The air had gone completely still now.

Malik felt himself succumb to visions of his perfect world, himself rising above the rubble to govern, to be the leader of all.

"I…" Malik was about to ask another question, when his eyes fell on Altaïr, still staring into the depths of the Apple's mysteries.

Like a switch, his perspective flipped. How could he have been so ludicrous? How, for even a second, had he let himself entertain ridiculous fantasies about ruling the world, when he had just seen first hand the damage that the Apple was capable of? Was he really that weak? That influential?

"Never," Malik said aloud, staking his claim.

Summoning up all of his inner strength, Malik sprung to his feet and tore into the fortress. He heard a scream of fury behind him, disguised as a raging gust of wind. He felt the claws of the Apple start to enter his mind, attacking his thought process and rational decision making. They tore through his conscious and sub conscious mind, screaming through his most personal moments, his most private memories.

The sharp talons of the Apple were digging tightly into him, almost physically pulling him backwards. However, adrenaline was on Malik's side as it drove him down the steps to the foyer. He felt the grip on his mind weaken, and just as he passed through the doorway into the front courtyard, the Apple mustered up one more attack, one more assault on his mind and body. A blast ripped its way through his limbs, sending him flying through the air. He hardly had time to gasp before he landed with a thud on the packed soil of the front courtyard, rolling, falling, and tripping over his extremities before finally being brought to a stop by a stone wall.

For many minutes, Malik lay in a crumpled heap, unmoving. He tried to keep as still as possible, silently hoping that he was safe from the Apple for the time being.

Eventually, he stretched himself slowly out, wincing as he felt a slash filled with dirt across his forehead. Fortunately, he hadn't broken any bones, though his wrist was quite purple and swollen.

With a groan, he sat up and, bracing himself against the wall, finally stood. With his natural physical durability and years of training, Malik was used to extreme amounts of stress on his body, and therefore, was ready to fight through the pain, if not for him, then at least for the people he owed it to- the citizens, Altaïr, and his men.

Bleeding, bruised, and beaten, Malik left one war to enter another.

He wondered if he could get lucky twice.

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**A/N: Woo! That was _fun_, wasn't it? **

**Yes, It is from Malik's POV. I decided we should visit him for a while. Turns out, it was a bit of a mistake, considering he has such MAJOR self esteem issues. He doesn't have nearly enough tissues. (Did they even have tissues back then?) Altair better have a sense of humour up his sleeve, or it's going to be one helluva angsty, emo-assassin story. Yikes.**

**So, just to clear up a continuity issue: I would like to reiterate that I am making this up as I go along. Plot lines are chillaxing in my head, but they are safe in there. They're the cool kids of my brain. If I let them out into the real world, the sun will shine on them and show them for the underdeveloped children they really are.  
Okay, enough with the dumb metaphor.  
I know that Malik told Altair last chapter that the Apple didn't affect him. That would mean the Malik was *gasp* lying! Now, why on earth would he do that? **

**One more thing: This Apple is obviously not cannon. **

**Hope you enjoyed! :)  
PS: Malik will never eat an apple again after this- ever. :P**


	3. Driven To Impulse

**A/N: ****Hello there! Long time no see, hm? Yes, I apologize about that. Writer's block loves me like I love ice cream. Which is a lot. It would be even better is ice cream loved writers block, but even a cool, tasty treat like ice cream couldn't like a bitch like writer's block.**

**My next book idea aside, this chapter is more of the same as the last chapters, to be honest. I would say it's filler, but that would be lying. So... enjoy!**

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Altaïr was busily perusing books in Al Mualim's library when his finely tuned sense picked up almost silent footsteps behind him. He turned around to see Malik standing before him.

"You were not pondering the secrets of the universe? Questioning the existence of God?" Malik asked slyly.

Altaïr blinked, not understanding.

"I did not even need to announce my presence. In fact, I was quite silent in my approach, yet you heard me. You do not usually acknowledge one until you are repeatedly pulled away from your own musings."

Altaïr was silent for a moment, then, to Malik's surprise, he smiled. Granted, it was more of the corners of his mouth turning slightly up, but it was worth noting.

"My mind is at east today, Malik, and I have you to thank for that."

"Me?" Malik asked, taken aback. He ignored the smile he inwardly felt, and pressed on. "For what reason?"

"A simple one." Altaïr explained, the almost-smile still in place. "Though nothing changed last night, talking about a problem is the first step in fixing it. I feel light, like I could walk across water and not sink."

Malik kept his face composed, but inside he was rejoicing. Altaïr, the stoic and stony assassin -the Master of the Assassins, no less- was grateful to _him_. Though they were supposedly friends now, and such formalities and pleasures in pleasing the one higher up the food chain than him were most likely considered ridiculous, Malik couldn't help but feel proud of himself, like a child who manages to make their parents smile.

"I am glad I could do that for you, Altaïr." Malik replied, seemingly aloof, but pride oozing inside him like he had internal bleeding.

Altaïr's almost-smile faltered for a moment, then it was back, though even smaller and harder to detect now.

Malik felt a pang in his stomach, but pressed on as if nothing was wrong.

"What are you working on?" He asked, trying to read the open book on Al Mualim's old desk upside down. It appeared to be a book of maps.

"I am attempting to find a route that can lead us to all our destinations, though that is proving difficult, as I have no idea how far we will need to go. In fact, I have idea where we need to go, either." Altaïr frowned down at the maps as he sat down, his supposed peace of mind draining before Malik's unsurprised eyes. As soon as Altaïr had informed him of his tranquility, Malik had been counting down the seconds until his peaceful mood gave way to his more natural, brooding self. Or in this case, frustrated self.

" Altaïr…" Malik said quietly, and then trailed off, thinking better of his question.

Altaïr looked up, curious.

"Continue," he encouraged.

Malik bit his tongue, cursing his mouth for speaking before his brain could finish processing. He stared determinedly at a deep red and gold tapestry on the wall, hoping Altaïr would go back to his maps and forget Malik had ever opened his mouth.

"Malik." Altaïr said softly, though to Malik is sounded as if his voice had a serrated edge. "What is wrong? Please, tell me."

Altaïr looked like the perfect person to listen to your problems. He made a great listener, as he never interrupted, and was always trying to come up with a solution. He was extremely intelligent and wise, and, though he didn't seem it, Malik knew that there was sympathy in him somewhere, possibly hiding until the right amount of variables came together, until Altaïr found someone with whom he could share sympathy and not feel weak, vulnerable.

Visions of Kadar being manacled by nothing in mid air, bloody sunsets, and screaming voices all shuffled in line in Malik's head, begging to be let loose, to fly from his tongue to Altaïr's all too eager ears, to be processed and looked at closely, until their meaning could be determined and sleeping dogs could hopefully lie peacefully.

Malik knew that Altaïr would listen in rapture, eager to compare experiences with the Apple, but Malik also knew that, no matter how tranquil he seemed to be, he was teetering precariously on the edge, and it would take but the slightest nudge to send him into oblivion.

So much was going on in their separate worlds. Yet at the same time, so much was going on in _their _world, the one the two of them now shared. Malik had a feeling that Altaïr's supposed peace of mind was an illusion. Lately, Altaïr had been carrying around a burden much bigger than he deserved, and much too much for one man to handle. Malik figured that only a small piece of it had actually been lifted, and that Altaïr was so lost in his own musings that he didn't know what it was like to be truly at peace anymore. Malik wasn't going to say anything, but he wasn't going to add to Altaïr's invisible, unknown burden either. Altaïr was strong, but he wasn't invincible.

So he kept his mouth shut.

"Nothing is wrong, Altaïr. I was just…" And Malik faltered, mad at himself for already breaking his word to not add to his master's worries.

But this question needed to be asked. No matter the consequences to himself, either.

Malik took a deep breath.

"I was wondering… if you needed a map, and you were unsure of our destination… Have you considered looking at the Apple again?"

Altaïr looked at Malik with an unreadable expression. It could have been disgust, or surprise, or maybe a bit of both.

"I do not think that would be a good idea, Malik. The Apple is not something to be tampered with. I do not know what would happen if I inhaled the sweet scent of the Piece of Eden again. I do not know if I could resist like I did last time. I do not know anything, really." As he said this, Malik saw the telltale signs of a full blown Altaïr think-a-thon. The Master of the Assassins started to shrink inside himself, his eyes clouding, seeing things a million miles away from this earth that no one else would ever see. He was sitting as still as a statue, hardly breathing. Once he lost his slight frown, and his face became a blank slate, Malik knew he was gone for a good while.

With a shake of his head, Malik left his master, knowing that it was his own fault that Altaïr was now in an almost catatonic state.

He knew he should not have asked that question.

* * *

Altaïr was not a million miles away, as Malik had assumed. He was very close to home, actually.

He was thinking about Malik.

More specifically, he was thinking about how Malik lied.

Altaïr was thinking about Malik's face when he had assured Altaïr that nothing was wrong. A trained liar trying to lie to a better trained liar was a disaster waiting to happen, and Altaïr definitely had the upper hand in the lying department. He knew that Malik was untruthful, but hadn't confronted him.

Why Malik would lie, and what he would lie about, Altaïr had no idea. All he knew was that it couldn't be good. Information is only held back when it is bad, unless used as a bargaining chip, and Altaïr highly doubted that Malik was somehow working against him, or that he wanted something from him. Besides, Altaïr was sure that he could give Malik whatever he desired, without Malik having to go to extremes for it. Altaïr would do it for Malik with no grumbling. He would do a favour with a smile on his face, even.

Truth be told, he would do anything for Malik, because he owed it to him. After taking away a limb and the only family Malik had left, Altaïr was surprised Malik was actually civil to him, and floored that Malik would return his friendship.

It meant more than Altaïr was comfortable with expressing out loud, though he was sure that some day his gratefulness would just flow out of him in a truly horrific way that would most likely send Malik running for the hills without sparing a glace behind him.

This made Altaïr wonder what Malik would hide from him, and the motivation behind said concealment. Only a handful of things were worse than killing a family member _and _taking a vital limb _at the same time, _no less. What could Malik be withholding that could be worse than that? No matter what he said, Altaïr was in no place to reprimand him or be angry with him. Short of boot kissing, the least Altaïr felt he was justified in doing was obeying Malik's every request, be it moving a mountain or fetching some meat from a local merchant. Altaïr wondered if Malik understood the power he had over his -in name only- Master. He also wondered if Malik understood how the concept of friendship rocked him like a smooth boulder down a steep hill.

The idea of being able to have someone to confide in, someone who you could trust, was something Altaïr had never known, and now that he was experiencing it, (even though it had only been a day) he was determined not to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

Though that idea that Malik was keeping something vital from him was now, he was sure, going to be a persistent prodding at the back of his mind. It would be with him all the time until he learned what it was Malik was so readily keeping locked up in his mind.

Suddenly, a thought unwelcome as the blade of a Templar entered Altaïr's mind.

_If you used the Apple, you could figure out Malik's secrets. You would not need to worry anymore. Along with that, you could fix everything. Find the hidden Pieces of Eden, see their true power, what they were always meant to do._

Something was pressing on the back of Altaïr's neck, at the base of his brain stem.

_Everything you wanted at your disposal. The world at your feet. The _whole _world. Land masses the likes of which you've never seen._

The pressure was building, making a hot spot on Altaïr's skin, burning him. It felt like a blunt object, but the harder it pressed, the more it seemed to change into a pointed object, now trying to break the flesh and draw blood.

_What you dream about in your wildest fantasies. Everything you find in your worst nightmares will be gone, sent to hell, damned. No more Templars. No more evils. No more wrongs._

The object pierced his neck, ripping through layer after layer of skin, going deeper, deeper. Past veins and arteries, narrowly missing the brain stem, halfway through his neck, pushing, pushing. Through muscle, through fat, through tissue. Burrowing like a beetle into dirt, tearing, shredding. Blood spurting, dotting the map in front of him with red.

The pain had been too great at first for Altaïr to comprehend, but now the ripping of his skin was being felt layer by torn layer. Stars danced in front of his eyes, promises of the heavens twinkling about them. Hot streams of blood ran down the back of his neck, staining his pristine robes, mixing with the red of his sash, getting lost in the fray.

The blood ran in rivers, soaking him, mingling with a clammy sweat that had just broken out. His hands were shaking. Or maybe he was shaking all over. He didn't know.

The object was about three quarters of the way through his neck now, and the pain had only gotten worse. It was digging, struggling to get through those last muscles, that last layer of skin.

It pressed on though, revving its serrated edge, and continued to cut.

Needles were jabbing around his wound from every angle, stabbing the already sensitive skin, pricking him with as much force as such a small object could carry.

_You could have everything_, whispered the disembodied voice.

Altaïr gasped and jumped out of his seat, breathing heavily. His first instinct was to apply pressure to the wound, but when he pressed his fingers to the back of his neck, he felt nothing.

No hole, no object, no torn skin.

Altaïr felt his stomach drop through the floor, and he wouldn't have been surprised to hear a shout from the assassins on the floor below, shocked that a human stomach had just come barrelling down at them through the ceiling.

He had recognized the voice. It was one of the voices of the Apple. That was not good. How could the Apple have reached him? At the moment, it was sitting safely in Altaïr's chamber, hidden beneath sheets and other various things. He had thought it was only capable of attacking him if he had his eyes set upon it, if his mind was vulnerable.

Apparently, he had been wrong. But what could he do? The Apple was something he needed to keep with him, to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. And, no matter what he told Malik, and no matter what his instincts were telling him, he might have to venture into the depths of the Piece of Eden again, if he truly wanted to figure out how to defeat it once and for all.

But that was merely an idea festering at the back of his mind. It wasn't something he wanted to think about too much, because he knew how easily he would get sucked into a debate with himself about the ethics of the situation, the different possible courses of action, and even the adverse affects on himself and any other unfortunate soul. It would suck up valuable time, especially when debating an idea that was much more roundabout that he would have liked. No matter what conclusions he would come to, he would always come back to one, simple truth: He was afraid of the Apple. He was afraid of what it did to him, he was afraid of what it would do to anyone else who picked it up, he was afraid of the power that was housed inside it, and, most of all, he was afraid of what he would become if he ever succumbed to the succubus that was encased in that golden sphere.

He sometimes wondered if the Apple was fear incarnate.

So many theories ran through his mind, none of them stopping to give him a moment's rest. That morning had been his first break from thinking since the death of Al Mualim a week ago. Non stop was his mind, and it was starting to wear him down. He didn't know how to turn it off.

Maybe it wasn't the Apple that was making him crazy. Could someone think themselves into insanity?

Altaïr sighed and started to pace behind Al Mualim's desk. (He never thought of it as "his" desk. It just didn't seem appropriate.)

Was his mind safe? Dismissing his last thoughts as irrelevant, more because he didn't want to consider the possibility of going insane than the fact that he actually doubted that he was losing touch with reality, he was more weary than usual about what thoughts were passing through the extremely trodden pathway of his mind.

If the Apple could sense him, could get into his head without even being near him, Altaïr knew that something needed to be done fast. He feared the idea of constantly being around temptation in its purest, most malevolent form.

Though, if the Apple could find him from one floor away, could it find him from halfway across the country?

Altaïr felt his blood frost over at the thought. It was a distinct possibility- especially with all the powers the Apple had already showcased. Add that to the fact that the Piece of Eden probably wouldn't take kindly to him trying to dispose of it, and Altaïr was looking at an extremely difficult journey.

But hadn't he just claimed that he needed to keep the Apple, no matter the cost to himself, so he could protect whoever else accidentally or purposely tried to acquire the Apple and its powers for themselves?

The sudden, dizzying rush of anger that accompanied that thought quickly thawed Altaïr's chilled blood, and before long, it started to boil.

This Apple was not going to have a hold over him. The puppet strings that tied him to Al Mualim had taken years to finally sever, and he had no intentions of falling victim to another puppeteer- especially one he _knew_ would lead his wooden body to a roaring fire to watch him burn. The fire might destroy the strings, but puppets were cheap, petty toys, and Altaïr knew that they numbered in the thousands. Masses of people with minds impressionable as clay, and mouths that were as loose as an assassin's identity walked the streets, oblivious to the more sinister workings of the world, taking place in mountaintop fortresses, underground lairs, and even holy dwellings such as churches and sacred gardens. It almost seemed as if nowhere was safe anymore.

Maybe naivety was something to be sought after, strived for.

Altaïr thought back to his discussion on the rooftop with Malik. He thought about how confidant, how wise and sage-like he had sounded. He thought about how Malik had looked at him in awe, his eyes wide, his mind thinking he was basking in the intelligence of his friend.

He thought about how it was all a lie.

A lie for a lie, then? He knew Malik was keeping something from him. It was better this way, anyways. Malik didn't need to be burdened even further. Altaïr knew that he still mourned the loss of Kadar, and still was getting used to life without an arm. Now that Malik was also accompanying him on his journey, Altaïr figured that telling Malik how unsure he really was about everything wasn't exactly the best strategy. He had already lead Malik down a rocky path- he didn't want to take another wrong turn and make his friend follow him down into the depths of a sinister valley where secrets turned into demons, and mist so thick you could get caught in it resided.

No, it was better that Malik didn't know. His shoulders were already sagging with the weight of the burden he carried. Maybe if the right time came, Altaïr would share his secret with his friend.

The Apple was uprooting Altaïr, making him incompetent, making him keep secrets.

Altaïr allowed himself a moment to wallow in self pity. What had he done to deserve this? He had changed from the selfish, arrogant, over-confidant man he once was. He had overcome obstacles, had learned his lesson. He wanted to make things better, to make life easier for the people of the Holy Land.

The Apple was like poison. Even after the main source was gone, its repercussions could be felt for a long time after, spreading like a tree's roots would grow.

The anger Altaïr had previously felt came rushing back into him like a dam breaking open. He wanted to break things. He wanted to tear pages out of books. He wanted to thrust his hidden blade into something living and quivering with fear as its blood ran over his hands and stained his robes.

But most of all, he wanted to destroy that damned Apple. That infernal Piece of Eden that had caused nothing but trouble. It had turned friend into foe, peace into war, and sane men into possible candidates for a mad house.

No right could come out of this. More and more quickly, Altaïr was feeling his decision being made for him. There really was no rationalizing left to be done. He had wanted to study the Apple, to learn about it, and learn to defeat it, once and for all. But he was out of time. Another episode like today's was something he didn't think he could handle. And if the Apple could reach him from its safe place upstairs, what kind of things could it do when it was at close range? He'd only had one taste of it. Now that it was in his head, in his deepest, most personal thoughts, it could really make him snap.

As Altaïr felt his panic level rising, he felt his heart beating faster and faster. Shapes were distorting in front of his face, and he was dizzy. His stomach was doing back flips, and he had to sit down on the floor to calm his racing heart and blurry eyes.

For a few moments, he just sat there, breathing deeply and slowly, trying to get back onto his more rational train of thought. But it was stuck at its last station. Only a full train of anger, shame, and fear pulled into the station, coughing black clouds of filth into the already dirty air. Altaïr had no choice but to take the last seat in the whole train- the driver's seat. He couldn't stand at the station forever, waiting for a train that would never come. Standing still was worse than moving backwards fast. At least his feet weren't cemented in one place, staring at the same thing, feeling the same feelings, and tasting the same tastes.

Altaïr drove the train all the way to the end of its route, which, incidentally, was also its beginning.

"It would appear we have come full circle…" Altaïr quietly informed the Apple as he reached to pluck it from its hiding place in a small, shallow indent in the wall of his room.

The Apple gave no response. It was warm.

Altaïr carried it to the window in his room, which was conveniently located at the top of the fortress, facing away from the city. All that was beneath him was an angry body of water, impatient to suck the life out of any living being that came near it.

The sky was gray today, and a slight breeze was blowing. It was humid as well, and Altaïr felt the rumble of the soon to come thunder deep in his chest. Storms didn't come often, but when they did, they were monstrous.

Altaïr held the Apple out of the small window. It looked strangely innocuous today. It merely looked like a nice decoration that glinted in the small amount of sunlight that escaped the clutches of the unsettled clouds. Carvings were etched into it that Altaïr had studied over and over, but never came up with any explanation for being there. From what he could tell, they were random. Maybe they were from an ancient language. Maybe they were other worldly?

Normally, Altaïr would never have even entertained the notion that the supernatural existed. However, this situation was not normal. In fact, it was not even merely bizarre. It was completely and utterly psychotic. People got put away for claiming that inanimate pieces of metal talked to them. Luckily, the only person that he had told had believed him, and had not called the nearest doctor to restrain him.

Strengthening his resolve, Altaïr braced himself for the onslaught the Apple was bound to throw at him like a tidal wave.

But nothing happened.

Altaïr took one hand off the Apple. All he had to do was loosen his grip with his right hand, and it would fall to its end on the sharp rocks and extremely angry, hungry water.

He took a deep breath. It had only been a week, but this Piece of Eden had gutted him more than his months of work for Al Mualim. Taking lives was something he was good at. Dealing with supernatural powers outside of his understanding was not. When the Apple had no blood to spill, no lands to conquer, no army at its command, it was almost pathetic for Altaïr to feel so relieved that he was finally getting rid of it. And yet he did, and did so with confidence. He would never have to deal with this Apple again. It would be gone, hopefully become a breeding ground for whatever happened to live in the lake. After many years, it would be gone altogether; the metal eroded and now part of the earth at the bottom of the lake.

Altaïr took lone last look at it. As he did so, however, a sudden searing heat penetrated his right hand. So quickly did the heat come that Altaïr didn't react until smoke was lifting off his burned palm, and he could smell seared flesh.

He gasped as his palm sizzled, and later, he would swear that he saw the Apple glowing for a brief second. He tried to stretch his fingers out, to let go of the Apple, but it had grafted itself to his hand. He couldn't shake it off, and if he didn't get it off soon, he would lose the nerve endings in his hand. The pain was widespread and even, and also equally as agonizing.

With a yell, Altaïr brought his left hand in a sweeping motion, and, with the bottom of his fist, knocked the Apple out of his left hand.

He brought his right hand inside immediately, and the skin was a sickening, raw red, and already blistering. Where the carvings had been on the Apple, Altaïr's skin was less red, therefore leaving its mark on his hand as clear as day. He would probably have those scars for the rest of his life.

With his attention solely focused on his burned hand, Altaïr had completely forgotten to watch the Apple meet its demise on the waiting rocks below.

* * *

**A/N: Fun stuff, huh? I apologize for not getting them the hell out of Masyaf yet. Things just keep popping up, and they never get to leave. Kind of like how my family is like when we are getting ready to go on vacation. _zing! _**

**Bad jokes aside, I still have to say I have no idea what I want to do with this story. Though... an interesting thought came to me while writing the end of this chapter. And it involves a female OC. **

**WAIT! DON'T LEAVE! Please, sit back down. Listen to my reasoning. Well, actually, I can't give a whole lot of reasoning, because I don't want to give away what might happen. Things aren't set in stone, though. So maybe this idea will just float away to the very populated area of my brain reserved for ideas that almost were.**

**For any typos, I apologize. It's probably obvious, but I don't have a beta reader.**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this rather mediocre installment in this story. Things will get rolling soon.. I hope.**


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